


the royal we

by wbtrashking (fan_nerd)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Post S3, alternating pov, newspaper/journalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-10 18:33:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20532641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fan_nerd/pseuds/wbtrashking
Summary: Hello listeners, and thanks for joining us this week onReveal.Today, we’re going to dive into the lives of two notorious serial killers from the northeast—renowned psychologist Dr. Hannibal Lecter, and his wayward accomplice, former FBI Special Agent Will Graham.Frequently the topic of true crime podcasts, news articles, and TV specials, Hannibal and Will's murders and private lives are often discussed, but most people miss the important details. Olivia Munoz is given a special chance to understand these killers when she sets out to research for her biography,Folie À Deux, obtaining details that no one but the men themselves should know.Most people assume that they're dead. Life's easier that way.





	the royal we

**Author's Note:**

> this is the product of watching far too much hannibal, listening to a lot of true-crime podcasts, and having my brain overloaded by pre-med information. enjoy ♡
> 
> ✧playlist: [alpha dog - great dane](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Stk9COocvAk)  
✧[brianstorm - arctic monkeys](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=30w8DyEJ__0)  
✧[get out - circa survive](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zX_ko50O6gI)  
✧[m1 stinger (monsieur adi remix) - don diablo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g1KYGdRZJuo)  
✧[the revival - the dear hunter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nozJHtuautU)  
✧[the willing well iv: the final cut - coheed and cambria](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eJ4H13Wd_p0)

* * *

_I told him that I would love him with everything_  
_ I had in me until the very end of everything, and I meant it._

—Sarah Ockler, _Fixing Delilah_

* * *

  
Posted Feb. 21, 2016—

**_Reveal_**, Episode 27: _Serial Killers in Love_

(Transcript provided by CQ Entertainment.)

Scenes of great passion have captured audiences for years. After all, what thrilling romance would be complete without a chase scene, raised voices, and the all-encompassing thrill of the climactic embrace, bringing two lovers together for a kiss that leaves the crowd feeling just as breathless as the characters?

It is unfortunate that in American culture, violence and romance often go hand in hand. Bloodshed often becomes just as enthralling as sex scenes, tangled and mangled bodies just one inch away from their naked, sated counterparts, consensual adults enjoying each other versus individuals playing God, deciding who lives and who dies. Worse still are incidences where the wires get completely crossed, where violent romantics find each other and live out their gruesome fantasies as a sadistic unit. The absolute worst kind of ‘partners in crime’.

I’m your host, Emily Riley, and this is _Reveal_.

On today’s episode, we’re going to dive into the lives of two notorious serial killers from the northeast—renowned psychologist Dr. Hannibal Lecter, and his wayward accomplice, former FBI Special Agent Will Graham.

There are a lot of myths about these two high-profile killers, so it can be tough to sort out the facts from the fake, but before we delve into their known history and twisted fate as a couple, let’s talk about the past, beginning with the man that law enforcement knows the most about: Graham.

* * *

His sense of smell isn’t very refined, nor is his palate, but he recognizes the scent of motor oil exceedingly well.

Years in shipyards with hands filthy from boat repairs had made sure of that. However, his housemate isn’t one for a mess in their home—or at least, not _this_ type of mess.

He probably shouldn’t be so excited about the potential danger this spells out, whether the smell is from something his partner has devised or from some nefarious plot being hatched against them, but he’d given up his inhibitions and conventional morality years ago, reaching his tipping point, crossing the threshold. He’s known about the monster under his skin for a long time; now, he’s just coming to terms with how ravenous said beast is.

“I’m home,” he says, licking his lips, goosebumps rising on his skin. Gray-blue eyes narrow, taking in the dusky living room as he reaches inside his jacket for a gutting knife.

There’s no immediate response. His heart rate increases. _Thrilling_. He’s been rather bored lately, feeling his edges going rusty – this is a pleasant surprise.

When he makes his way further down the corridor, to the second bedroom that they’ve turned into an office, he sees his sleekly-dressed partner reclining against a ludicrously expensive mahogany desk, a fresh slick of oil staining the floor. On the chair, there’s someone he’s never seen before; a dark-haired woman with red-rimmed almond-shaped eyes bound to the chair with zip-ties. There’s a cloth that looks suspiciously like a large napkin tied around her head, gagging her.

“Hello, Will. My apologies for not responding to your greeting. I didn’t want to startle our guest by raising my voice.” Hannibal, with all his usual grace and quietude, slides to the doorframe, where Will has been struck silent, torn between drinking in the helpless waves of panic and nausea rolling off of the woman and rejecting those sensations, gasping for air. He doesn’t like killing innocents—it’s not fair. But she’s here, in their home, and every bone in his body is screaming at him that she has to die. It’s fight or flight. _Us or them_.

Once he gains enough clarity to _breathe, _suffocating with thoughts of violence running rampant in his brain, he rasps out, “Oil?”

Coolly lifting one nonchalant shoulder, Hannibal murmurs, explaining, “I wore a disguise, and purchased it in cash from several districts over. We shall have to abandon this place when this is all said and done, I fear.”

Dark blue eyes jot to Hannibal, terror and fury making his voice shake. “What are you playing at? And don’t get too heavy on the metaphors, I want it straight. Who is she? What’s she doing here? Why are you burning the house instead of dumping her body in a lake?”

Hannibal sidles next to Will like he belongs at his side—a position he had carved out for himself through excessive force, though it’s not as if Will did anything particularly brilliant to stop him—putting a hand around his waist and kissing the back of Will’s nape. The gesture is overt, and their uninvited guest probably feels like wetting herself, watching them being so carelessly intimate while discussing her imminent death and the inevitable loss of their hiding spot, but neither of them care. Will is a little pissed that Hannibal’s brazen act works; he relaxes into the taller man’s hold, focuses on the heat radiating off of Hannibal’s palms, on the rhythmic, steady beat of his heart as Hannibal grows bolder, cradling Will in his arms.

“This young woman calls herself Olivia Munoz,” Hannibal hums pleasantly, carding one hand through Will’s unruly hair. “She is a biographer, of sorts, and it was largely circumstantial that our paths crossed. In Lyon, there are rumors that men befitting our descriptions were seen there last year, and, as she had hoped to learn as much about us as was humanly possible by following our shadows, she came to the outskirts of the city, asking locals about said men. I was shopping for produce, and I happened to overhear her as she was speaking with the owner of a boutique clothing store. Fate is often fickle and merciless.”

Will snorts, sighing as he leans back, tracing the lines of Hannibal’s veins on the back of his hands, closing his eyes. “You don’t believe in fate.”

He feels Hannibal smile behind him. “That does not mean that fate does not believe in _me_.”

The pieces are starting to come together. _Too close_. That’s the reason Olivia Munoz is tied up in their office right now. She’d come to France to see them; she’d achieved her goal, albeit more gruesomely than she had intended.

“Why haven’t you killed her already?”

He knows the answer. He just wants to hear Hannibal say it.

As expected, the taller man laughs deeply and darkly. “You are desperately cruel, Will.”

Will opens his eyes, pins their prey with his wide, hungry irises, and shows a few of his teeth, just to watch her eyes fill with tears. It _should_ feel terrible. He _should_ empathize. Unfortunately for her, all he feels right now is good. Warm. _Eager_.

“She shall have her questions answered. Her publication will be completed in the comfort of our home, and then, once she is finished, you and I will commit acts of brutality, revel in our work, and burn the evidence to the ground, relocating elsewhere when the deed is done.”

Turning in Hannibal’s loose hold, Will cradles his partner’s jaw with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “I won’t eat her. She wasn’t rude, and she hasn’t hurt anybody—_physically_,” he adds, when he notes the way Hannibal huffs, where he would roll his eyes if he weren’t so dedicated to his well-groomed façade of a noble human being. “Our egos inevitably getting bruised once this is published doesn’t count, but we have to kill her anyways. Might as well enjoy the process.”

“You are a delightfully bitter little man,” Hannibal says, rapturous as he chastely kisses Will. They have a guest watching, after all. There’s no need to be ridiculous. “Come now. I believe Ms. Munoz would like to ask you about your past. I’ll rid the desk of any potential weapons if you’ll organize a rig where she can type without too much strain on her arms. We shall honor her legacy with truths that only we can provide.”

* * *

Posted Feb. 21, 2016—

**_Reveal_**, Episode 27: _Serial Killers in Love_

(Transcript provided by CQ Entertainment.)

Born in 1976 to Leonard and Emilia Graham, William Graham was a quiet, patient child. None of his peers noted him as especially strange or violent—just shy. Because Graham’s mother was vastly out of the picture and her whereabouts remain unknown, Leonard took care of their son, becoming a single father who migrated often, taking young Will with him from boatyard to boatyard, teaching him the greatest crafts of his life: fixing boat motors and fishing.

From an early age, educators recognized Graham’s extremely high level of intelligence. He learned to read without being taught, understood complex mathematics at age eight, and was often more observant than people gave him credit for. More importantly, he was incredibly empathetic, and had a detailed imagination, making him capable of reliving events of other people’s lives as though he had been in their skin alongside them, going through said events in unison, step-for-step.

His father dealt with Will’s idiosyncrasies the best way he knew how. Graham publicly noted that his father was kind, albeit distant, and worked hard to make ends meet. They didn’t talk very much, but Leonard gave his son his space, and their happiest moments were when they both waded into the quiet of a stream and took their prizes home to grill over an open fire. It was perhaps because they were so close that Graham became even more reserved and remote after his father died.

Furthermore, he was only eighteen when Leonard passed, leaving Graham fumbling through young adulthood without the only stable figure in his life at that point. He’d been accepted into the New Orleans police academy, and was due to graduate any day when he got the news. Taking a brief leave to handle the funeral, Graham was welcomed back with heavy sympathies, and he threw himself into work with fervor, quickly working his way up from being a beat cop to homicide.

Although he got shot and retired from active police duty, Graham never gave up hope that he would be able to put his brilliance to the test, catching criminals who deserved to be punished. He attended George Washington University, double-majoring in Criminal Justice and Environmental Science, and graduated with honors, applying to the FBI in earnest. However, he never passed the screening exams—he had been barred for something that would forever become a ghost haunting him: psychological instability.

* * *

“Unstable,” Will mutters distastefully, picking at his nails while Olivia types. “You have a little trouble meeting people’s eyes and all of the sudden everyone feels like they have the right to call you unhinged to your face.”

Boldly, with her voice raspy from her previous hours of begging and crying, Olivia notes, “This isn’t exactly what most people would call _stable_, Mr. Graham.”

Hannibal rolls back in with a tea tray, the smell of chamomile fresh and comforting. “Will is stable—and sane, too, for that matter. I would go so far as to argue that he is the most stable that he’s ever been, with no one else’s designs cluttering his head.”

Will rolls his eyes, stretching his shoulders. “Stop putting words in my mouth. There’s always going to be _one_ other killer’s designs knocking around in the brain machine other than mine, and you know it.”

“But where does the line between _yours_ and _mine_ emerge? Do our thoughts not blur, like the sun shimmering on the horizon?”

“You’re so full of shit.”

“Mm,” Hannibal concedes, watching as Olivia nervously sips her tea, deep brown eyes wandering from the murderer on the left of her to the murderer on the right.

“Anyways.” Will slurps from his mug like a heathen. If Hannibal didn’t love him, he would cut out Will’s tongue without any anesthetic and feed it to him; Will knows that very well, which is why he’s being so obnoxious. “Where were we? Absent father, isolation; everyone should have seen it coming, all very textbook, blah, blah. No cruelty to animals, though. Well, unless you count fish.” After a brief period of thought, he frowns. “Do they specify the _type_ of animal in the DSM nowadays? Mammals, reptiles, amphibians, etcetera? That’s more your thing.”

“No,” Hannibal replies, daintily holding his mug and blowing on the surface of the liquid to cool it. “The most recent edition, the edited and revised version of the DSM-5, points to the general signifiers of antisocial personality disorder—aggression towards humans and animals, lack of regard for life, following rules, and so forth. Americans generally do not consider fish as intelligent and independent as mammals. Most do not regard them as _animals_, per se, in the same way that dogs, cats, deer, and foxes are regarded, but they do belong to the biological _animalia_ kingdom, just as humans do.”

Though Olivia is currently terrified for her life, Will’s happy to note that she looks just as exasperated with Hannibal’s grandiose speeches as he is. Shame that they have to kill her so soon.

Steeling herself for another rough and frankly nightmarish trip down memory lane, Olivia drinks more tea and starts again. “Okay. Let’s get to the particulars of how the two of you…got together.”

Will groans. Hannibal smiles.

* * *

Posted Feb. 21, 2016—

**_Reveal_**, Episode 27: _Serial Killers in Love_

(Transcript provided by CQ Entertainment.)

After being rejected for FBI field service, Graham took a tenured teaching position at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. He was noted to be a brusque, but highly regarded professor, his sharp insight and counsel requested on dozens, if not hundreds, of portfolios.

When Agent Jack Crawford, now retired, reached a standstill in the famous Minnesota Shrike case, the head of the Behavioral Analysis Unit called the best man for the job—Will Graham. However, with the little problem of having been publicly declared unfit for the field, Crawford bent the rules and forced Graham to sit for an informal psychological evaluation conducted by none other than Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

After incapacitating Garrett Jacob Hobbs, Graham, accompanied by his unconventional, off-the-books psychiatrist, Dr. Lecter, was pulled into the spotlight kicking and screaming, becoming the FBI’s sniffer dog. The FBI would begin to pull him into deeper, darker places, and he began relying more and more on his not-psychiatrist for stability. Even his own brain began to turn on him, as he would later be committed to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane and discovered to be suffering from a debilitating strain of encephalitis.

Graham was unparalleled in his ability to sniff out killers, with a capture rate of 85% in cases that he was called in to consult on. It was at this time that Freddie Lounds, one of Graham’s biggest critics, began to suggest that Graham himself might _be_ a murderer—how else could he know them so intimately, as well as he knew himself, or sometimes, even _better_?

But here’s where the story gets tricky, folks. It’s an age-old question—which came first, the chicken or the egg? Was Graham already poised and waiting for his chance to get away with murder and further spurred on by his psychiatrist’s encouragement? Or was everything a mind game, a type of genius-level cat-and-mouse with one of the country’s most notorious serial killers, wherein Graham unknowingly became another pawn on Dr. Lecter’s chessboard?

* * *

“_Hannibal made me do it_,” Will drawls, voice laden with mockery and disdain. “I hate it when the papers wave stuff off like that. Makes it feel like I don’t have any independence or agency. It’s bullshit.”

For the first time, it seems like Ms. Munoz is potentially more afraid of Will, who keeps absently toying with the latch of a switchblade, than of Hannibal, who sits with perfect posture in a chair in the corner of the room, eyes alight with guttural, animalistic glee. _Good_, Will thinks, tongue flicking out, trying and failing to stamp out the proud smirk coming to his lips. They’re both predators. She should be scared of him.

“Yes, Hannibal manipulated me. Gruesomely. Annoyingly. Arrogantly.” Will pauses. “Beautifully,” he admits just above a whisper, but he knows Olivia and Hannibal both hear him. The latter is preening, but Hannibal’s version of preening involves a barely perceptible glint shining in his eye, burning like a brand against Will’s skin, desire unfurling between them in this room like thick smog. “But he didn’t _force_ me to do anything; I’ve never been a mindless puppet. Except for the shit with the encephalitis, which was his version of an _experiment_, I knew what I was doing. I knew who I killed, and why, and those kills felt good. Righteous. Once I got over the existential crisis about that—feeling guilty about not feeling guilty, I mean—I realized I wanted that feeling over and over again. Yes, Hannibal started the conversations. But I was the one who kept replaying them. So, I finally asked myself: why not?”

There’s silence while Olivia organizes her thoughts, putting them down on the computer. The house and the situation are bizarrely cozy and comfortable, for all that she’s being held captive, but she’s starting to get hungry and she really doesn’t want to ask for anything to eat.

She coughs before asking her next question, fifteen minutes later. “Just to clarify, you’d thought about killing before you met Dr. Lecter, yes?”

Will’s responding grin is bright and honest. “You’ve read the papers. You tell me.”

_Not very smart to piss off a man who thinks about killing people for a living, indeed_.

Inhaling shakily, Olivia starts again. “Okay then. Well. Your relationship started off rocky. So. Let’s talk about how you, um. Got _here_.”

* * *

Posted Feb. 21, 2016—

**_Reveal_**, Episode 27: _Serial Killers in Love_

(Transcript provided by CQ Entertainment.)

When Graham got pulled into the FBI’s crusade to find the Chesapeake Ripper in earnest, things got destructively messy between himself and Dr. Lecter.

Between the notorious and meticulous frame-job that put Graham behind bars at the BSHCI and Dr. Lecter leading the FBI around by the nose as an inside consultant, the two men were toeing around each other like cats. Even when Graham was released, marked down as an innocent man, he turned his newfound knowledge into a weapon, befriending Dr. Lecter as one of his own—a fledgling killer, playing him sweetly and softly in turns.

He would kill for Dr. Lecter and prove himself worthy; he would find in Dr. Lecter a mentor, a guide, a new source of stability, and find himself victorious in battle over their enemies.

At the time, no one could be sure who Graham was a double-agent for. Was he the FBI’s man, giving Crawford everything he needed to finally put the Chesapeake Ripper away for good? Or was he Dr. Lecter’s right hand, a feral beast ready to be unleashed, to bring home dead prizes and rejoice in a job well done?

* * *

“Vulgar,” Hannibal demurs, sharp nose turned up towards the ceiling. “Will is not _mine_, any more that I am _his_. We are consensual adults. Relationships are built on discussion and compromise.”

“Yeah, you really _compromised_ the shit out of me with Margot. And Molly, and Alana, and Abigail. Everyone else in my life who wasn’t _you_,” Will snarks back, shocking Olivia with the strength of his vitriol. His anger is still raw. “But, yes. This was…agreed upon. He’d stop killing for me, if I wanted him to.” Olivia’s eyes snap to him, shocked with this knowledge. Will shrugs, anger bleeding out of him with a sigh. “I don’t want him to.”

“_Why?_” Olivia asks, fresh tears welling up in her eyes for the first time in a while. He understands her shock, truly. Facing concepts beyond ones’ control and comfort zone is uncomfortable at best, and the young woman is under incredibly intense pressure at the moment. He’s proud that Ms. Munoz hasn’t lost her spirit during all this.

“Hannibal’s just...look. You know his work. He’s a genius.” Hannibal doesn’t puff up at that, even a little bit—it’s common knowledge, and besides, he doesn’t feel flattered by Will complimenting his intelligence. He sees Will as his equal. “I don’t want to _change_ him. He doesn’t deserve to be locked up in a cage. He is what he is.” Running a hand down his face, Will tries his best to gather his thoughts. “And I’m me. We know it’s not sustainable. It’s not healthy, our level of codependency. We live together. We kill together.” Will looks up and locks eyes with Hannibal, shooting his partner a smile that is bitter and hopeful in the same turn. “And we’ll die together.”

“You call that love?”

Will shrugs. “It’s passionate, for sure.”

“Passionate love doesn’t last forever,” Olivia suddenly snaps.

“No,” Hannibal quietly remarks, holding Will’s gaze ardently. “But _compassionate_ love does.”

Will flushes, always embarrassed by Hannibal’s flagrantly open affection.

“It is through forgiveness, Ms. Munoz, that we humans learn to love each other deeply. We work through our faults and find each other’s favor. Will is fetching, of course, but his mind is easily ten times more compelling than his face. It would be my honor to die at his behest, for him to be my final enemy. A fate I deserve and a companion that I do not.”

“Stop it. I don’t want to kill you.”

“Right now.”

“Never,” Will snarls, jumping to his feet and startling Olivia. Noting her terror, he balks, balling his fists at his sides. “Never,” he repeats, more quietly, more sincerely.

She is struck, then, by noting just how deeply enamored they are with each other, two killers on tightrope, the thread beneath them growing thin.

* * *

Posted Feb. 21, 2016—

**_Reveal_**, Episode 27: _Serial Killers in Love_

(Transcript provided by CQ Entertainment.)

Regardless of how their initial tête-à-tête began, Dr. Lecter and Agent Graham parted ways. Betrayed by the person he had thought closest to him, the one the most capable of seeing him for what he was and embracing it, Dr. Lecter fled the country with a one Dr. Du Maurier, his former psychiatrist.

Through an unspooling tale of ugly history, a network of connections, and international communication failure, Will Graham came to know the full truth behind the Chesapeake Ripper’s past, his origins, and decided that in all of their ruses and games, he could never come as close to his real self or achieve anything remotely like closure without running to his almost-psychiatrist’s side.

Graham was aiming to answer a question that many are still asking: What was it, exactly, that made the Chesapeake Ripper the way he was—an artist, a killer, a surgeon, a counselor, and, most famously, a cannibal?

* * *

“That is a convoluted answer,” Hannibal says instead of answering. “Do excuse me. I’m sure you’re quite famished by now. I’ve neglected my due diligence as a host.” Olivia straightens up, trembling fiercely. “Do not be alarmed just yet. I will not harm you until you are finished with your work. You only have a few more gaps to fill in your biography, yes?”

She considers lying, but nothing’s going to stop them from killing her, so there’s not really much point. “I guess so. I can probably send a new draft to my editor in the morning. The annotations are complete, and I sent her most of the book last week anyways.”

Will keeps a vigil over Olivia in the office while Hannibal distantly prattles around the kitchen. After a while, he mutters, “You can’t put this in your book. If he tells you, the knowledge stops with you. Hints here and there, maybe, but nothing concrete. My past’s a shithole, but everyone already knows about it. His is private.”

“I don’t mind, Will,” Hannibal says, dishing out some sort of extravagant pasta dish. “Pardon the lax presentation. I wasn’t afforded much time, or many materials.” Recognizing the startled, open fear on Olivia’s face, Hannibal reaches out and pats her shoulder gently. “Nothing human, of course. It wouldn’t do to upset your stomach before we kill you.”

More than anything, Olivia is shocked at her adaptability. She’s so hungry, it probably wouldn’t have mattered if there _was_ human meat in her meal, but what’s more fascinating is the unnatural calm she feels. She knows that the buck stops here, but her death’s just another thing on their agenda at this point. They’re awfully human, these monsters, scarfing down noodles and sauce like everybody else, spilling secrets in the dead of night with a young woman who’s not quite young enough to be their daughter, but she feels like she’s cradled in a familial atmosphere all the same.

She should hate them. She should want to escape, scream, claw her way to safety tooth and nail. She’s letting her guard down too much.

But they’re just so _normal_. It’s easy to believe she’s just going to fly home and go back to her bed after all of this, but no. Of course not.

“Nothing _made_ me,” Hannibal says, seamlessly returning to the conversation that Olivia had started before he’d gone to cook. “I had all the textbook criteria for transients. Self-imposed isolation. Childhood trauma. Cruelty towards animals—mostly for medical curiosity, you understand, but this should hardly shock you, at this point, knowing the publicized extent of my criminal career in Baltimore.” He folds one knee over the other regally and Will changes location for once, moving to loop his arms around Hannibal’s neck in protection, pushing his stubbled cheek to the crown of Hannibal’s ash-blond, gray-flecked hair. “However, I suppose all good storytelling relies on a catalyst. In this case, one would consider that the death of my sister, who was murdered and cannibalized by ruthless men in our home country of Lithuania.”

Olivia’s gut lurches, and even though she’d been assured that the meat had not been human, she feels like vomiting her stomach contents out all the same.

Hannibal toys with the cuffs of Will’s shirt, a self-soothing and familiar gesture. It would be cute, if the two of them weren’t so inherently terrifying. “They forced me to partake, of course. I was an adolescent, and my sister—Mischa—was my world. My charge, my everything. The tides changed. My nature leapt free. Still, I have never been impulsive or impatient. I refused to let those men die quick deaths. I paced myself. I worked long and hard to trail them and kill them miserably, like the pigs they were.” He sighs. “The Soviet Union—it was a tumultuous place to live at that time. Many barbaric actions went unchecked by the government; they had other problems. From the heart of poverty, brought upon by the loss of my parents and my ancestral home, I learned not to waste. With the Hippocratic oath, I swore to save lives. With my personal creed, I elevated deaths. Blood and bone keep us alive, Ms. Munoz, and it would serve many well to remember that fact. Nations are formed on the spines of murder and conquest.”

Silence lulls between them for many long minutes. Olivia breaks first. “How old were you when you first killed?”

“Sixteen,” Hannibal answers, pressing his lips to Will’s cheek, the younger man closing his eyes to hold back a pathetic run of tears. “Do not cry, Will. It was a moment of joy. Not unlike your becoming.”

“Fuck you,” Will murmurs.

“Only if you ask very nicely,” the older man teases, “and of course, not in front of our guest.”

Will doesn’t look ashamed when he looks at Olivia, drawling a dry, “Sorry,” but she’s not sure what he’s referring to—the fact that they’re flirting so openly in front of her, or that they’re quite possibly going to eat her alive.

* * *

Posted Feb. 21, 2016—

**_Reveal_**, Episode 27: _Serial Killers in Love_

(Transcript provided by CQ Entertainment.)

Will Graham’s known kills include only two men: Garrett Jacob Hobbs and Randall Tier. The first was entirely permissible, lawful in the realm of self-defense; the second was slightly less justified as it was clearly a pathological, methodical murder. Many experts have continued to press this in psychological profiling, but FBI officials at the time passed this death off as necessary in facilitating Dr. Lecter’s capture, drawing the psychiatrist further into the ruse of Graham’s willing and aware accessory to murder.

The Chesapeake Ripper is thought to be responsible for upwards of 41 unexplained disappearances and 37 murders in Baltimore, but Dr. Lecter, apprehended as said killer, could only be concretely tied to 1 murder and 3 accounts of assault, to one Abigail Hobbs, a renowned psychiatrist who will not publicize their name, retired Agent Jack Crawford, and Will Graham respectively. Law officials may never know the true extent of the Ripper’s crimes—many have speculated that his true body count was well over 100.

Unfortunately, not all stories end with the bad guys captured, where the good guys win.

After Dr. Lecter’s 3-year tenure at the BSHCI, Graham, together with Crawford, organized Lecter’s ‘escape’, using him as bait to lure out the Tooth Fairy, later known as The Great Red Dragon. Knowing what a torrid and passionate relationship Lecter and Graham had fostered with each other over the years, Agent Crawford openly expressed a concern that Graham might forget himself and find himself floating to Lecter’s side instead of keeping the monster in captivity. Unfortunately, Crawford was right to be paranoid, because Graham took off with Lecter, falling in step with the escaped murderer easily, like he’d wanted to do it all along.

Leaving behind enormous pieces of evidence that the kill was committed by the two men, the bloody body of Francis Dollarhyde was found at Lecter’s cliffside abode, chunks of his face, neck, and viscera notably missing. Graham and Lecter’s blood was spilled in the fight, but it was obvious that they had reveled in the unified kill, more alive than ever before. Here, both men viewed themselves as partners under the moonlight, slick with blood running down their hands, becoming entranced with one another’s sadistic capabilities. It was the beginning of their mutual end.

The couple only has this _one_ joint kill tied to them, but they left FBI agents and psychiatric professionals stunned by the violent display in their wake. One jump over a cliff likely ended their lives, but at least they would have gone out together, bathing in each other’s blood and the blood of their victim, murder making their hearts sing in sync.

But no bodies were found. Through tenacity or a miracle, Graham and Lecter could have survived the fall, going to live on as what Freddie Lounds has dubbed ‘Murder Husbands’. Interpol is frequently reminded to be on the lookout for anyone matching their descriptions, for scenic, extravagant murders, looking for two brilliant murderers on the loose _together_ rather than lone wolves circling prey.

Dr. Du Maurier is one potential victim of their newly drawn relationship boundaries, as she now walks with a prosthetic limb. She refuses to submit a report to the police about the way in which the leg was lost, but is quoted thusly: “It is easier to live in the light and see your fate coming than it is to live in the shadows praying that it will not happen. Animals live by their instincts, and so too do fools who find themselves in love, or something close enough to it.”

Others connected to them have faded into obscurity, going into witness protection to avoid their wrath, refusing to step into the belly of the beasts.

All one can hope for is that Graham and Lecter find a significant source of amusement with each other for a long time, and retire from killing by their own volition, or that some good Samaritan lives long enough to report them before getting their heart eaten out.

Thanks for joining us on today’s episode of _Reveal_. This has been Emily Riley. Tune in next Tuesday to listen to more undercover true crime stories, with cases that are cold or unsolved. To learn more about the history behind this episode’s killers and learn about theories and rumors regarding Lecter and Graham’s whereabouts today, please visit revealpodcast.com, and check out Olivia Munoz’s groundbreaking biography, _Folie à Deux_: Graham & Lecter, the Notorious Killer Couple.

* * *

“You’ll feel it,” Will says, “it won’t be easy. Sorry.” He actually sounds apologetic this time. Olivia’s too dehydrated to cry. “We read your book, before plugging the cable back in and sending the draft. It was good.”

“It was real,” Olivia Munoz replies, letting her eyelids flicker closed, drawing in a deep breath and preparing for the worst, even though she knows there’s nothing she can do to truly prepare. Her hands are zip-tied to the chair again, a fresh gag is placed in her mouth, and Will has on vinyl gloves—the end is nigh.

When Hannibal enters the room, he commands presence. Even Will transforms before her eyes as he joins his partner, from a taut, surly man into someone worthy of hunting beside Hannibal—she sees a leopard and a lion pacing around her, lithe and poised to go for the jugular, watching their future meals bleed out and go still in their jaws.

Olivia knows things won’t be so simple for her. These men _play_ with their food before eating it.

Hannibal goes first, surgical precision used as a weapon, cutting her fingers off in thick chunks. She screams, pain blooming from her chest like a laser beam, sharp and _hot_ and desperate. Olivia had believed herself cried out, but she’s proven wrong quickly, biting at the cloth as she whimpers.

Will is next, driving his knife into her thigh deep enough to form a pocket, then parting the jagged skin with his hands, feeling her smooth muscles and lifting his blood-soaked glove back to his mouth for a taste. The young woman feels bile rising up her throat and Hannibal shushes her, driving his scalpel into her diaphragm and pulling it down, down, down, making two more cuts across her midline and spreading her open.

Two ragged breaths. She’s the center of their attention—the breath and the bone, her viscera parting, revealing gleaming, shining organs still beating with blood and oxygen running through them. Olivia’s eyes roll back, from the pain and the shock, but she’s still alive.

Will licks his lips. “I wish she hadn’t gotten so close.”

Hannibal smiles. “You _were_ bored.”

“Okay, yes. That doesn’t mean I can’t feel a _little_ bad about this one. It’s necessary. I know it’s necessary. And I’m not exactly playing backseat driver here, am I?”

Pressing a kiss to Will’s adrenaline-sweaty temple, Hannibal says, “No, my dear, you are helping me steer. It’s a little bit like a boat. All hands on deck.”

Will’s nose wrinkles. “Ugh.”

“Any port in a storm?”

“Oh my fucking god, you are an atrocious old man.”

“I do not think a braver gentleman, more daring or more bold, is now alive to grace this latter age with noble deeds.” Hannibal recites Shakespeare, and Will snaps his teeth, just to have something to do with them. “Yes, you’re right, too flowery. Let us recede, for now. She will die of sensory flooding at this rate.”

Will pulls back begrudgingly. “I don’t want to.”

Hannibal hums. “As you wish, then.”

“Tell me what you’d do while I’m working.” Will sits down on the floor, opening a small case of fishing hooks and marveling at the way they pierce her skin and draw intricate patterns across her flesh.

“She did nothing in particular to offend me,” Hannibal murmurs, kneeling behind Will, eyes following the motions of his lover’s hands while petting his thigh. “Her kidneys and liver were in fairly good condition—I would have cradled her in my arms, left her in a chair, taking my meal for later and bowing my head in deference to the loss of life. One does not survive in this lifestyle by showing kindness.”

Will sighs, still painting blood murals on her calves. “I wish we didn’t have to burn the house. I _like_ this house. You were finally warming up to me getting a dog.”

“On our next adventure, Will. Perhaps we shall see Belize, or Shanghai. Do you have a preference on location?”

“Cooler,” he says, eyes flicking up as Olivia unwittingly groans in pain. “The beach is nice, I guess, but it’s too damn hot. I miss Baltimore.”

“We could always revisit.”

Will leans back and firmly—almost _too_ firmly—grips Hannibal’s hand. “No. The past is in the past now. We keep moving forward.”

“As you wish.”

After another thirty, forty minutes of torture, Will draws a knife across Olivia’s throat. It’s sad, watching her bleed out. She’d been bright. Still, it’s not sad enough to stop his rush, his desperate need to see Hannibal’s face in the direct aftermath of the kill.

They lurch to their bedroom, tossing the gloves in the trash—why’d they even wear them, Will wonders, since they’re just going to burn the place down? Habit, he absently supposes. He still has blood on his clothes, impeccable fucking Hannibal still has blood on his clothes, and the moment the door is closed, Will tugs him down by the collar and gets a dark red, almost brown, glob of blood across Hannibal’s cheek. The sight arouses him beyond belief, but yet again, this is no news.

“I wanna fuck you,” Will grunts, rutting against Hannibal’s thigh, half penning him to the mattress, aquamarine eyes wild and dark. “Let me?”

“Filthy boy,” Hannibal muses, pulling Will down against him, ripping buttons off of his shirt to paw at Will’s chest, setting his teeth on the skin there. “Ask me properly, and you shall have whatever you like.”

_Charmingly narcissistic bastard. _“_Please_ let me fuck you. Pretty please. Make love to you. Have sexual intercourse.” He gets more flustered the more polite he tries to make it sound, and Hannibal is amused below him, licking at his nipples, toying with his blood-soaked clothes. “_Fuck_ you.”

“Yes, yes,” Hannibal says, acting thoroughly put upon, but Will can see the fire burning in his eyes, desperate to claw its way out of him, to set itself free, to be unleashed upon the unsuspecting wilderness, this tightly-controlled apex predator just _waiting_ for his chance to strike.

It was always going to be like this between them, roiling and languishing with someone else’s cooling blood staining their bedsheets, exchanging bruising kisses and falling down together. Death’s nothing to be afraid of; who, or what, could be more terrifying than the monster they’ve sworn their life to?

Will’s grip is tight on Hannibal’s skin, russet, olive-tones staining white at first press, and deeper red as he lingers. His teeth linger on Hannibal’s nape, exploring the familiar body underneath him quickly. He’s still furious with Dollarhyde for marking him in the abdomen, furious with Alana for finding Hannibal a better choice, seeing her red lipstick across Hannibal’s body like floating tattoos. He bites down hard, lathing over the mark when he’s done, certain that he’ll come back to it and draw blood—it’s his scar, no one else’s, and he delights in the way that Hannibal groans for him gutturally as he sloppily grinds down. Their clothed groins whisper against each other in promise, and he restlessly tears the buttons of Hannibal’s trousers to get at him.

“Impatient,” Hannibal murmurs, the breath halfway knocked out of him. He always seems so entranced with Will, whether he’s on the bottom or the top, but he’s especially soft like this. Pliant. Rapt. Will is his god and his demon, a vision, his virtue and sin. Will fumbles with his own fly, ignoring the older man’s chastising tone, grabbing at a bottle of lube on the night stand that’s covered in incriminating fluids, the least of which being ejaculate.

Ruthlessly, sadistically driving two slick fingers into Hannibal, just because he can, just to see the other man purse his lips, Will bites into Hannibal’s thick, meaty thigh, lips red and full from their kisses. “You love it.”

Hannibal puts one hand out and Will leans into his touch, letting Hannibal’s palm cradle his jaw. “Yes.”

Even though it had taken a long time to recognize, Will knows Hannibal is not, intrinsically, a liar. He obfuscates, he misdirects, he manipulates and reorganizes the truth in way that suits him best, but he rarely outright lies. The only thing Will _knows_ he’s lied about is that Hannibal knew he’d had encephalitis and had let him go on burning anyhow, but they’ve made their peace about that, in their own ghoulish way. Besides, there’s no reason not to trust Hannibal now, after everything, after two years on the run, two years rolling around in bed with a murderer, becoming a fully-fledged murderer himself.

Even though Will is an asshole, plying Hannibal for far longer than is strictly necessary, gripping the base of Hannibal’s cock with extreme fervor as he massages his prostate, he won’t torture Hannibal. He can’t; he’s too desperate. He _wants_ to be inside him. He wants Hannibal’s mask to fade away, to see the animal beneath it, shamelessly eager to meet its match while he fucks the older man raw.

He pulls Hannibal’s legs apart; his own cock is weeping with precome, and he slides home, puffing out his cheeks, feverish.

Hannibal moans. Will opens his mouth, the two of them just breathing into each other’s throats. When Hannibal adjusts to the girth of him, his eyes slowly roll open, irises glistening almost hazel in the afternoon light. He looks poised to kill, even now, with his ass full and sexed-out bliss written all over his cheeks. Will could stab him. _Conceited fucker._

Instead, he snaps his hips, drawing back before plunging back in. Hannibal’s not dying, but his moans of pleasure, his preternatural calm disturbed by something so base as lust—it’s just as good, as addictive, as intoxicating to Will. Hannibal clings to him like a lifeline; Will clings back with equal ferocity. They are terrible for each other. They’re a terrible blight upon the earth, creatures that should have died in hospitals roaming free, having sex a room away from a quickly rotting corpse.

She won’t be their last piece. Their portfolio has only just begun to expand. Will comes riding that high, but Hannibal grabs him by both wrists when he starts to go lax, flipping him down and pushing him to the brink of overstimulation, painting Will’s abdomen with come, irises more maroon than hazel now. He drags a hand down Will’s chest, feeling the thumping heart in its cage, almost willing it to jump free into his hand.

“I have matches in the kitchen,” Hannibal says, pulling off of Will in a slick motion, lewdly displaying Will’s handiwork on his body as he stands, cracking his neck. “I’ll leave you to say goodbye while I take a shower.”

He’s not saying goodbye to Olivia, but rather to this brief respite of peace. The French countryside is beautiful, and they’re both sad to see it go. “It won’t look like an accident.”

“No,” Hannibal replies. “But we shall be far from this country by the time anyone is able to investigate. Uruguay is rather brisk, this time of year, as you mentioned missing the cold. There are lots of mountains in South America. And wild dogs,” he adds, a teasing lilt to his voice. It’s lazy, blatant manipulation and it works—Will’s heart races at the thought, making him skittish and eager to go. Immediately. He wants to teleport there. _Now_.

They both shower. Pack lightly. Change clothes. Hannibal isn’t stupid—he’d taken care of Olivia’s rental car somehow, and they have so many getaway vehicles across France that it’s disgusting. This is just another part of their routine.

Everything is deceivingly calm. Their false identities help them book a cruise to Egypt, several extraneous bus rides across Africa, and they pay an obscene amount of cash for a private flight with a discreet pilot, making their way to Uruguay.

When they touch down, arranging for transportation and posting up in a rickety old abandoned trailer, Will surprises his partner by reaching for his hand, lacing their fingers together. It’s rare for him to initiate small, intimate touches, though he’s often starving for them. Hannibal is inordinately pleased, even though they’re surrounded by squalor. All he needs is this, the comfort of Will’s touch, to be held in his regard with warmth.

* * *

_College Park, Maryland, January 2016._

Jack is guest lecturing at the University of Maryland when it arrives. The concierge stops him in the lobby, informs him that a package has come for him, if he would sign for it, please, and his gut wrenches; intuition. Old habits die hard, and all that. He hadn’t ordered anything, knowing that this stay would be brief—someone with intricate knowledge of his movements had found a way to make sure this specific package got forwarded to him.

It’s a book. He’s torn between the age-old desire to lash out and the sick, guilty wave of nausea that overtakes him. _If only_. His life is plagued by a laundry list of ‘if only’ moments.

_Folie à Deux._ _A Madness Shared by Two_.

Jack swallows a bitter lump in his throat. _Isn’t it just_.

There are handwritten dedications on the first page; of course there are.

_Congratulations on your retirement, Agent Crawford. May your days be bright and prosperous forevermore._

The second note simply says: _Goodbye, Jack._

He tears the page out and flushes it down the toilet. The blood smear on the page won’t leave him alone; he knows that he won’t sleep until it’s out of his sight.

Even without the physical taunt in his face, there are still five hundred some pages of research on the two men he let unspool and get out from under his careful eye, practically handing them the keys to their gilded cage, granting them his solemn and terrible blessing.

He should throw the whole thing in the trash, but he can’t. He reads on, desperately mourning young Olivia Munoz, so obviously lost to the den of two monstrous men. Jack understands. When Bella had died, a large chunk of his heart had slithered off to crack and break. When Will had dragged Lecter over that cliff, the splinters of his fragile heart had shattered like so much glass.

* * *

**CSNBC**, Jul. 23, 2016. **Author**: Paula Weatherford.

(Readers, please be advised as to mentions of murder and violence below.)

Today, the nation remembers the life of Olivia Munoz, posthumously famous for her critically acclaimed publication on what may be the most famous pair of killers in recent years. For years, the FBI and notable members of Maryland’s State Police Department have written Hannibal Lecter, M.D., and his associate, former Special Agent Will Graham, off for dead.

Dozens of specialists were called in that fateful night in 2013, explaining over and over again that it was beyond unlikely that they had survived, especially with their extensive injuries from their fight with another serial killer, The Dragon, the now deceased Francis Dollarhyde. Still, 99% confidence leaves 1% for disbelief. There were never any bodies recovered from the sprawl of the Atlantic where the men dove off to their supposed doom, and some of the details given in Munoz’s account of their deeds, _Folie à Deux_, had never been released to the public. At the very least, the couple had people in high places who knew their secrets intimately.

Is it possible that Baltimore’s greatest terror, the Chesapeake Ripper, Dr. Lecter, has found love and greater heights of torturous murder methods with his accomplice, Graham? Is it possible that the late Ms. Munoz found herself in the crosshairs for daring to wade into Graham and Lecter’s territory?

The recently retired Agent Jack Crawford, former head of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit, offered us these insights in an interview.

**Crawford—**“Predators are always on the lookout for easy targets. People that go unnoticed; sex workers, the homeless. There are unfortunately lots of men out there like Graham and Lecter—whip-smart, careful, and cruel. It’s difficult to catch them; sometimes it’s downright impossible, especially when you’re dealing with someone like Lecter. He’s from old money, and he never leaves any evidence. Coupled with the FBI’s finest mind in profiling in the last twenty years, who knows what sorts of atrocities they could get up to when they put up a united front.

“My advice to the public is this: be smart. Lock your doors. Don’t be reckless. And most importantly, if you find yourself crossing paths with men who look like these two, who radiate violence from their pores, run. Don’t chase ghosts. Who’s to say if they’re alive or not? If they show themselves, then Interpol, the FBI, and police departments across the world will bring them to justice, and if they don’t, then they’re just two more creatures lurking in the shadows.

“Graham’s modus operandi before he slipped off the grid was only to kill criminals. Lecter’s was to kill the rude. Pardon me for being brazen, but my best advice to avoid ending up on their dinner table is to keep your hands clean, mind your manners, and to steer clear away from them. They’re usually pathological, but they’ll defend their safety and privacy, when it comes down to it, so don’t make it your business to know theirs.”

With that said, don’t forget to manage your facets of security, and never walk alone at night. Exercise all caution while going to dangerous neighborhoods, and don’t hitch rides with strangers, especially in areas you aren’t familiar with.

* * *

This time, it’s Hannibal who’s treated to a surprise in their new home in Uruguay. He can smell sweat and urine—Will’s brought home a prize.

Amazingly, the grungy man is intricately tied up on the floor and Will is already wrist deep in the man’s left buttock.

“I saw him go after his daughter. Left the kid—she didn’t see me.” There’s a small border collie missing a leg whimpering in the corner, chewing at a bone. Hannibal would go so far as wager that the bone is from some format of wildlife, because it’s small, but he knows Will is going to feed bits of the dog’s owner to the dog before the night is over. Noticing the way that Hannibal’s eyes study him before roaming over to the poor girl, he says, “Her name is Samantha, by the way. I’ll wash her up later. You want in?”

Kneeling beside Will, opening his leather satchel and digging his tools out of its confines, he grins, teeth crooked, gaze full of promise. “Always.”

Later, much later, when they’re finished mutilating his genitals while the man breathes, they grab a butcher’s knife, hands overlapping, and stab the cretin in the heart. It’s a beautiful design.

Their time will come, sooner or later, but they have no fear of death.

Death is a familiar face in their house, in their bed. Will and Hannibal have survived despite all the odds before—they’re living on borrowed time and they know it.

But they have each other, and that’s something. No more masks; no lies. Just intertwined hands, filthy with blood, and kisses exchanged between cannibals—nothing more and nothing less.

**Author's Note:**

> probs not gonna continue this any time soon, but i do love this post-canon style, so it's always possible. happy trails, folks, and thanks for reading ♡♡♡
> 
> ✧tumblr: [**quillifer**](http://quillifer.tumblr.com)


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